


From Ancient Grudge

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: AU where 2015 was not horrific, AU where David Cameron falls in love with a leftie at a garden party, AU where Ed Miliband went into academia as he was obviously meant to, AU where Ed is allowed to insult Tories and ramble about baseball and set himself on fire a lot, AU where the 'wrong Miliband' Labour missed was Justine, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:13:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David is lovesick. George is annoyed. Ed is stubborn, private, workaholic, commitmentphobic; an accident-prone communist genius with comically large glasses and blossom in his hair; a rather sweet-seeming chap; probably created for the express purpose of resting his head in David's lap in the quiet hours of Sunday afternoons; not some sort of backrub prostitute, and a few other things besides.<br/> <br/>And Justine Thornton is the leader of the Labour party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If this universe seems a touch odd, it was inspired by this picture from ages ago, which I always thought looked as though David Cameron and Justine Thornton were Prime Minister and Leader of the Opposition, and Ed and Nick their respective husbands;  
>    
> http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/multimedia/archive/00276/104023421_queenspee_276011b.jpg

 

  
Years later, as David's hair grows alarmingly thin, his stomach grows alarmingly round, and wrinkles crease his forehead, he'll get tipsy on good wine at dinner parties and tell anyone who will listen, _I knew from the start_. He’ll say that from the moment he had seen Justine Thornton, laughing on the other side of the Osbornes' neatly-manicured lawn, chills had run down his spine; that the close breath of Fate had raised hairs on his neck.

It will, of course, be complete tosh.

_

 

_Notting Hill, August 2008_

 

The moment in question is a lazy sunlit evening, full of late blossom being shaken from the trees, and the Osbornes' garden party hums with well-bred small talk.

David spends ten minutes admiring the arse of the rather sweet-seeming chap the young MP is talking with before George sidles up to him and murmurs that _she_ is Frances' close friend and _quite_ the rising star within Labour, too.

"And a close ally of David Miliband," adds Frances, in lieu of a hello, as she reaches them with the drinks, "which George and I reckon might mean she stands as his candidate in a leadership contest, now he's fluffed his chances over that failed _coup_. In fact," she continues with sudden, careful over-casualness, following David's line of sight, "the guy she's with is Miliband's little brother. Ed."

"Thanks," says David, taking a champagne glass and trying to disguise both his interest and his disappointment, "And when you say _with_ -?"

Frances laughs so hard her drink sloshes.

"Not any more, darling. In fact, I think she's got an eye on- oh, what's his name, a Liberal I think- something Clegg?"

"Nick Clegg," George confirms.

"Yeah, that one, so they're just close friends these days. And as I recall Ed goes both ways as well, so," she adds cheerfully, patting David's arm, "if you really want to incur the wrath of David Miliband by bending his little brother over in our spare bedroom," -behind them, George spits out his drink -"then it's _entirely_ your choice to make."

 She drains the last of her glass and moves off towards Justine. When David dares look, George is wearing a faintly shell-shocked expression.

"Your wife is a magnificent human being," David announces fondly, avoiding eye contact, "and I would never desecrate your _lovely_ guestrooms by engaging in any sort of carnal activity with any sort of Miliband in them."

"Not even," he adds magnanimously, "with that highly fuckable one over there."

And with that, the next Prime Minister strides forward purposefully to befriend Labour's elfin-faced up-and-comer and her charmingly doe-eyed ex.

 

-

Ed has wandered off by the time he reaches them, but Justine warms to him almost immediately after it transpires that he does indeed have the mobile phone number of the MP for Sheffield Hallam. David parts with it happily.

"In the interests of facilitating true love," he tells her solemnly, scribbling it down, "and of getting into your friend's pants."

The laughter-lines crinkle sunnily around Justine's eyes. "Ed? Oh, goodness, help yourself. You know he's a Miliband, though?"

"I do," David assures her. "In fact, as it happens it is the one thing I _do_ know about him, except that if I don't shag him within the next twenty-four hours I _might_ die, and that he's, er, currently trying to pick blossom out of his hair."

Justine's smile widens, fondly, and she shifts to share his view of Ed.

"Yeah, he's always that hapless," she cautions, as Ed spots them, waves awkwardly, and begins to move in their direction. "And if it's helpful in your pursuit of a shag, he's also a professor of political theory at the LSE, a Nobel prize-winner, noted for his opposition to intervention in Iraq, single, so left-wing he makes me feel Tory- and in the five years I've known him, he's, um, he's accidentally set fire to himself twenty-three times."

" _Twenty-three_ -?

"Yeah."

"Gosh."

"Yes."

"How awful. And how serendipitous that I'll be there to rescue him from now on," David decides.

"You're his knight in shining armour now? That progressed from _shag within the next twenty-four hours_ very quickly," murmurs Justine, dropping her voice as Ed approaches. David follows suit.

"Yes, well. He's an accident-prone communist genius with comically large glasses and petals in his hair, how am I supposed to resist-? Anyway," he concludes, at normal volume, "thanks for that." 

"Hullo, darling," says Justine to the accident-prone communist genius in question. Then, gesturing in David's direction- "David. David, this is Ed. Ed, love, you've got rose-petals in your hair. David, don't worry about it, but you owe me one once you're PM and I'm a humble leadership candidate."

Ed frowns at her, extracting another petal. "Oh. You're conceding defeat, then?"

"Aren't we all? Privately? I know David has."

She means his brother, of course, but Ed's eyes flick, nonetheless, to David, who manages a small self-satisfied smile.

" _I_ , on the other hand, am feeling extremely confident-" he begins to assure Ed. 

"-which you shouldn't be," the object of his affections interrupts, "because your shadow Chancellor's plans for deficit reduction are wrong. Just wrong. Leaving aside for a moment your really unbalanced ratio of spending cuts to tax increases- I think the stated intent was 4:1?- how do you expect _growth-_ "

Justine stamps on his foot. Hard. She'll make a terrifying Leader of the Opposition, David realises.

"Don't talk economics," she informs Ed, breezily, "it's not sexy when you talk about economics, we've been over this. Remember?"

"I wasn't trying to be sexy," he protests, pouting adorably. "Or talking about economics, really, this is just common sense. I was-"

"Try to be sexy," she advises.

"The economics was doing it for me," David admits, a touch breathlessly. The new love of his life grins wonkishly at him.

"Good," he is told, "because frankly, it's economics or baseball. And you don't look like a baseball fan to me."

David can't help it, is laughing in spite of himself.

"I'm not-"

"Knew it."

"-but if the alternative is having my economic policy roundly insulted, I could become interested in baseball very quickly."

"I'd hardly call it economic policy, more a sort of fairy story, really-"

"Baseball suddenly sounds _fascinating_ -"

"But no, actually, the alternative is that we end the conversation here, and you return to our lovely hosts, and I go and find a way to rid myself of these fucking _petals_."

"The fucking petals look very nice," David tells him, panicking invisibly. "And besides, I hereby personally veto any ending of the conversation. In favour of being lectured on my own incompetence, if necessary." 

Ed smiles, polite and confused.

"Er. Not that I don't, um, want to. But- I'm not sure it's very- why?"

David hesitates. "Because-"

"Because he fancies you," Justine finishes for him, and David freezes. _Bugger_ -

But Ed smiles again, thoughtfully, and pulls another blossom from his collar. The thought occurs to David, blindingly clear through a fog of panic, that _absolutely no-one else_ in the entire garden has so much as a single petal anywhere on their person.

"Oh good," Ed is saying- _fucking hell, Ed is still_ \- "Er. Come with me?" 

 

-

 

It's a sign, thinks David, trotting obediently after his soul's own companion. The blossom is a sign. Ed was probably created for the express purpose of resting his head in David's lap in the quiet hours of Sunday afternoons, and God, God Himself, in His great mercy, has benevolently seen fit to point this out by showering his intended in- well, in pink cherry-blossom.

It's one way to get your point across, he supposes. 

David makes a mental note to find a nice church with an abundance of cherry trees for their wedding. Of course, his family won't approve (of the wedding; he's sure they'd be amenable to the trees), but Ed is sweet and clever and charming and David can teach him the proper use of cutlery and how to make small talk about horse-breeding if necessary.

So lost is David, in fact, in these thoughts, that it only just floats across his mind that Ed has led him into a toilet– _the toilet- George's toilet– because–?_

"Help me with these?" asks Ed over his shoulder, eyes dark and soft and he'd swear it's intentional except that Ed seems too honest for anything so devious, so David leans close and brushes his fingers over Ed's neck and shoulders self-indulgently, dislodging showers of petals as he strokes his hands down Ed's spine through the thin material of his shirt.

But David is a gentleman, sometimes, and doesn't abuse the situation- he's tempted, but he doesn't- and so it's Ed who reaches round and presses a kiss to his lips, Ed whose fingers come up to rest against David's face, and Ed who thinks to locks the door before pressing David up against the wall.

It's insanely good, and David wants to put his hands everywhere, is vaguely aware that he's saying Ed's name. David had thought, until now, that he'd tried everything, but the earnest young professor from the LSE appears intent on proving him wrong with very little time and even less space.

 _Students_ , he thinks bitterly, afterwards. _He must've learnt that from his students, there's no way-_

"It'll have to be a spring wedding," he mumbles into Ed's shoulder. Ed frowns.

"Sorry?"

 _Blossom_ , David is about to explain, before realising that Ed probably isn't aware that he's going to be David's husband. Better to bring him round to the idea gradually.

"...your number?" he lies, kissing Ed's collarbone idly.

Ed smiles absently down at him for a moment, and David is gripped with a sudden fear he'll refuse, before Ed fishes a pen from his pocket and scrawls a number across David's arm.

"There. Now get dressed," he says, and is gone before David can even reply.

 

-

 

Justine spies him across the lawn when he emerges, and bounds over with Frances on her arm. 

"I'm in love," David tells them, unhesitatingly. "I'm in love with him. I shall have to alter our manifesto to legalise gay marriage."

Justine laughs.

"So you got your shag," she twinkles. "Well, happens to all of us. I don't know what it is about him, but..."

"All of us?"

"Ed. He picks a victim, lets them seduce him, leaves immediately, and then they're lovesick and pining for months whilst he just ambles on to the next one. Join the club."

"What makes you think I'm part of the club?"

"What makes _you_ think you’re not?”

“I asked first.”

“Well, I bet you haven't even got his number, for a start."

David smiles, smugly, then rolls back his sleeve.

"This number?"

Justine examines it a moment, wide-eyed, then nods slowly.

"Yup. That number. Frances, have you seen–? I can't believe– David, dear, congratulations. You've made a conquest."

"He has," agrees Frances. "When's the wedding? I feel we deserve invitations."

"You do," David assures her, fervently. "But only if I get one for Justine and Nick's."

Justine sighs, mock-seriously. "Great. Can't wait for the headlines about an inter-party love-in and how I'm basically just a massive Tory in disguise."

"I wish you were," he tells her, "you'd make a far better Foreign Sec. than William."

She grimaces.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather be drawn and quartered, thanks for the offer."

"I look forward to having you as my Leader of the Opposition."

"I look forward to thwarting your every move."

" _À bientôt_ , loony leftie." 

"See you around, Tory scum."

 

-

 

And that's how David Cameron meets Justine Thornton without even really noticing.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

_Hampstead, July 2010_

 

He lingers on the stairs a moment, wondering if he could just-

"I can _hear_ you, you know, sweetie. Come up."

David sighs and obligingly follows the sound of Ed's voice.

Ed is hunched the desk over in a way that is probably terrible for his posture and will give him terrible backache later- he'll complain to David, who will offer him backrubs in exchange for sex, and Ed will announce that he's not some sort of _backrub prostitute_ , thanks very much, before climbing onto his lap and kissing him until David sees stars and drags Ed to the bedroom for sex and backrubs.

Ed, he realises, is waiting patiently for David to finish his line of thought.

"It's absurd," he says aloud, because it _is_.

"Your government's White Paper on NHS reform? Mr. Gove's proposed educational reforms? Ma-"

"You living here."

"This is my house," Ed reminds him, folding his arms and moving to perch on the arm of the couch. "I'm not sure you'll find widespread support for this new and unorthodox view that living in one's own house is absurd. Or is this new Conservative party policy? I suppose it would go down well with your non-doms and oligarchs-"

" _I_ have a house," David argues. "It's big and old with lots of offices, you'd like it. There's staff who'd do your laundry for you, and when I say that the security is world-class I'm not exaggerating–"

"Yes, very funny–"

"And it's central. Very central."

" _David_ –"

"Nine minutes from the LSE by car," he points out.

And instantly regrets it, because Ed's eyes light up hungrily, and it's plain that for the first time in the conversation he's tempted by the offer.

It's not that David expects Ed to be as infatuated with him as he is with Ed. That would be ridiculous. Nor is it even that he believes that two years of sex and backrubs and listening fondly to Ed grumbling about commuting would have naturally culminated in Ed moving to Downing Street. Perhaps at first, admittedly, but Ed is stubborn, private, workaholic and commitmentphobic, and no sensible forecast fails to adjust for circumstantial factors.

It's just that he'd have liked, by now, to mean a little more to Ed than proximity to a lecture-hall.

"What brought this on?" Ed asks, laying aside his papers and looking mildly concerned now.

 _I love you_ , David wants to say.

"Because if you've somehow heard about Harvard, I'm checking the house for surveillance no matter how much you insist it's only when you're visiting."

"I l- Harvard?"

Ed throws an envelope at him. David doesn't open it.

"You're going to Harvard?"

"Not quite. I'm being asked _very nicely_ to go to Harvard in October and offered a quite flattering amount of money to do so."

David doesn't even miss a beat.

"Pretty please with a cherry on top stay in London where your students and your stupid beloved Labour Party are and I'll make up however much more they'd be paying you."

Ed grins.

"Am I really that good in bed?"

"Er, _yes_ , and also if that's not enough for you I should remind you that I am the Prime Minister and I will legislate against it-”

“That’s ridiculous-”

“British professors moving to teach abroad drain our country's talent and stifle its innovation and educational excellence-" says David, with as serious a face as he can muster. And then Ed kisses him, and for an hour and half, David inexplicably forgets all about the pressing danger posed to Britain’s tenuous economy by expat academics.

In fact, he forgets even after that, as Ed lies with his face pressed into David's chest for several long moments, before shifting to sprawl clumsily all over him and closing his eyes sleepily. 

"Oi," David says, heart aching with how much he loves him. "I am a Prime Minister, not a _mattress_."

“Mrgn,” Ed replies, and then, "You couldn't legislate against me leaving. Not even Theresa or Michael would let you make an ass of yourself like that. George certainly wouldn’t."

David opens his mouth to argue but then Ed exhales, long and soft, and David realises he's fallen asleep. He sits and thinks a little before shifting Ed’s weight, retrieving a blanket to throw over him, and appropriating the armchair opposite.

 _Do you think it’s about politics?_ he types into his phone. He’s about to send it to George, before changing his mind and sending it to Justine Thornton instead. 

Moments later, his phone chirps. He sets it on silent so as not to disturb Ed.

_If this is about Our Mutual Friend, yes, it’ll be about politics. His whole life is._

David frowns. 

 _Ambiguous._ __

_Yes. Look, he’s a nice guy and he thinks the world of you-_

David’s heart-rate speeds up.

_-and moving your gay lover into the symbolic heart of British government is a move even your admirers would be calling ‘brave’. He knows that. He probably tells himself he doesn't want you to 'get hurt'._

David frowns again. 

_Being out hasn’t seemed to affect public perception much so far. Aside from the obvious._

His phone goes quiet. Then-

_I think you’re as aware as Ed is that being theoretically gay is far more acceptable to a lot of your core vote than actually parading a boyfriend in front of the nation._

__ He begins typing a furious reply when he receives a second text.

 _I know you’re about to make some excellent point about not caving in to popular pressure or spinning it the right way or something. Don’t make it to me. Make it to your stupid gangly nerd boyfriend. I have a date._ __

David grins. 

_Clegg?_

_Yes._

_Good luck._

_I don’t need it._

_I meant in the leadership contest._

_Thanks._

_You too. For all your help._

_Is that sarcastic?_

_:)_

_**  
**_ There’s no reply to that, so David sits and watches the quiet rise and fall of Ed's chest until his car draws up and he has to leave.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

_Downing Street, May 2012_

"No, sweetie, you can't justify this one, not by any-"

" _Darling_ , please-"

"It's just sick. Tax cuts for millionaires whilst you rip up charity tax relief and the CRC?"

"Yes, look, OK, but we've agreed not to go ahead with that, we’re keeping tax relief in charit-"

"Right. Right, so I'm expected to love you for your immaculate sense of political expediency?"

David has frozen, heart hammering.

"David-?"

"You love me?"

Ed glares.

"Not today."

The door slams behind him as he leaves.

 

-

 

It takes precisely four minutes for David's fury to evaporate to the stage where panic takes over. He pulls out his phone.

  _Don't go to Harvard._

_Fuck off._

_Is the offer still open?_

_Pretty much._

_Please don't._

 

He doesn't get a reply. He doesn't get much sleep that night, either. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

_London, June 2013_

The sun shines, and the church bells ring, and they all carefully avoid looking at the press photographers clustered amongst the graves.

"You look beautiful," Ed tells Justine, beaming. "He doesn't deserve you at all."

The Leader of the Labour Party grins back.

"Unfortunately, darling, he's managed to con me into believing otherwise, so go with your boyfriend- hi, David, by the way- and get ready to make your after-dinner speeches."

"Go back to your Conservative and prepare for merriment?"

"That's the spirit."

"I wonder what the headlines will say?"

"'UNLIKELY POLITICAL BEDFELLOWS?" she suggests.

"'THEY'RE ALL IN IT TOGETHER'?"

"Mine was better."

"It was. So they'll probably go with mine."

"Both excellent," David intervenes diplomatically. “Come along, dear.”

Ed kisses Justine’s cheek and permits himself to be dragged into a church pew.

“I hate weddings,” he mutters cheerfully, brushing a blossom from his hair.

“I love weddings,” David whispers solemnly, straightening his tie.

Ed grins, and then the _cantus ad introitum_ begins.

 

-

 

It's five days after the wedding of Justine Thornton, and far too late at night for anybody respectable to still be in their bloody office. Nonetheless, that's where David is, although the news is on in the background, and it catches his eye as he leans back into his chair.

It’s Ed. Cameras flash in the night air around him, and he’s flanked by his brother and Justine. If ever there was a triumvirate better suited to ruining David's entire life, he's hard-pressed to think of it.

"...so of course we plan to support the Bill fully," the Shadow Chancellor is saying seriously, a hand on his brother's arm. "With a majority as small as his, I very much suspect David Cameron would be completely incapable of getting such an important, modernising piece of legislation past his own poisonous backbenchers."

On screen, Justine nods.

"Exactly. Fortunately for poor Mr. Cameron," she adds, mischievous, "the Labour Party is here to save him."

They smile at each other. David feels a bit ill.

"And to what extent do you think this is a self-interested move from the Prime Minister, Mr. Miliband?" the reporter asks Ed, who assumes a blank, polite air.

"Self-interested in what sense?" Ed inquires mildly.

"You're in a relationship with David Cameron, are you not? Do you think he had you in mind? Are you expecting a proposal once the Bill is passed?"

Ed beams lopsidedly.

"Not in the least, no. I mean, insofar as it's self-interested, he's interested in the political capital he'll gain from the move. No, I fully expect to continue to be referred to in the papers as 'Mr. Cameron's close friend', and _furthermore_ , Andrew-"

David's pen snaps- he hadn't even realised it was there- and he picks up the phone to his PA.

"Send a car to collect Mr. Miliband, please. The younger one, yes, no, not the Shadow Chancellor. To Number Ten, thanks. Yes. Thank-you."

 

-

 

When Ed arrives, every line of him is fuzzy with the desire for sleep and it's evident from the set of his mouth that he isn’t quite sure why he’s been summoned.

“Someone died?” he asks, drily.

"Upstairs," is as much as David cares to reply.

Ed sighs and obligingly follows him up to the bedroom.

“What have I done this time?”

“Undress.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

“How exciting.”

“Shut up.”

“Do I ever?”

“Your tie.”

Ed hands it over to him, eyes sparkling with curiosity and glee.

“Are you planning to get undressed yourself at any stage, or have you just decided that you want- wait, why’re you- oh, ok, I can live with that-”

David finishes securing Ed’s wrist to the bedpost with the red tie and tugs his own from around his neck.

“Other wrist.”

“Yes, dear.”

Ed lies back against the bed frame, positively beatific with joy, and David can’t help himself, abandoning the task at hand to admire him a moment.

“You should be wearing less,” Ed tells him, matter-of-factly. “I may not have been sufficiently briefed on your plans for tonight, but-”

“ _Ignorantia legis non excusat_ ,” David announces smartly, tying his second wrist and bestowing a kiss on it gently.

Ed wrinkles his nose.

“You _appalling_ public school boy, don’t do that when we’re in _bed_ , it’s very off-putting-”

“ _Mea navis aëricumbens anguillis abundat,_ ” David adds, straight-faced, and Ed laughs until David has to kiss him.

“ _Sine te non potero vivere,_ ” he adds softly, when he breaks the kiss, and Ed frowns.

“I don’t… is that…?”

“Just a poem they made us translate in school.”

“Yeah, but did you just tell me I’m your _life_?”

“Something like that.”

“You are awful. You’re awful and soppy and you keep speaking in _Latin_.”

“If I recall right, it was actually Mediaeval Latin, slightly different.”

“Awful. Kiss me again.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Why won’t you marry me?”

“It’s supposed to be quite rude to marry men who haven’t asked first.”

“Will you marry me?”

Ed looks suddenly uncomfortable.

“I don’t-”

“Is that a no?”

“You’re the _Prime Minister_.”

“That’s not a no.”

Ed tugs at the silk binding his wrists.

“ _David_ , please.”

David breathes deeply.

“Say no,” he requests, pleasantly. “Say no, and we’ll have sex and you can go home and we’ll ignore all of this.”

Ed thinks a little.

“Um. Given that I'm apparently your life or something, now, and- and you've just introduced the Bill and- oh. I see. Am I allowed to say yes?”

“You are.”

“Well, what happens then?”

“Well, you say yes, and then we’ll have _incredible_ sex and you can go home and we’ll ignore all of this.”

“You’re _such_ a politician.”

“Will you marry me?”

“What- oh, fine. Fine, yes, ok, I would like to marry you, yes, but nobody can know, and we have to keep it away from the press, and you can't veto me going to Harvard forever, you know, this changes nothing-”

“You seem,” David tells him calmly, heart racing wildly in his chest, “to have forgotten what happens after you say yes.”

Ed’s answering smile is crooked.

It’s still crooked in the morning, too.


	5. Chapter 5

 

_Birmingham, October 2014_

 

David has never enjoyed Conservative Party conference; the drunken MPs, tweed-clad homophobes and braying racists collectively both bore and appall him.

This year- like the year before, and the year before that- is particularly awful, though, because Ed has declared he'd rather kiss Margaret Thatcher's corpse (David had winced) than attend Tory conference on his arm, and since _Labour_ conference was last week and Ed had merrily cleared his schedule and ambled off up to Manchester for _that_ , David is alone and heartsick and ridiculously sexually frustrated.

"Your _bloody_ husband," begins a nasal voice at his elbow, and David turns to find his Chancellor of the Exchequer echoing his own thoughts, "I swear to God I'll have him _hanged_ one day-"

"Keep your voice down," David murmurs from the side of his mouth, "hanging's very Same Old Tories, George. And anyway, he's not officially my husband."

George stares incredulously.

"How official do you want it to _be_ -" he whispers furiously.

"The papers don't know-"

"The papers aren't here-"

"Ed doesn't want anyone except close friends and family knowing-"

"Sod what Ed wants-"

"Fuck off, George."

George glares and fucks off. Five seconds later, Nicky Morgan is at David's side informing him that Ed has attended his brother's policy launch announcing plans to abolish the non-dom tax status and cut NI contributions for the low-paid.

"My bloody husband," David mutters. "I swear to God I'll have him hanged one day."

Nicky raises an eyebrow.

"Husband?"

"Don't tell."

She nods and fucks off. They have, after all, a job to finish.

It just seems increasingly likely that they won't be allowed to finish it themselves. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

_Whitney, May 2015_

 

The town hall is swarming with press photographers eager to catch every disappointed look and careworn expression. It's becoming increasingly apparent that Justine Thornton will be able to reach some sort of majority, however slight, and-

And Ed, of course, has decided to give an interview to camera. _Perfect_.

"Of course I'm pleased," he's saying, wide-eyed and sincere, "You know, it's a great result for the country, for my brother, and obviously for my close friend, the new Prime Minister."

Laughter from the hacks. David hates them.

"And your close friend the old Prime Minister?" some wit amongst them asks. "What about him?"

Ed frowns. "He's not my friend, Sarah. He's my husband," he replies, a touch snappishly, and David's head spins, dizzying.

There's a murmur of interest amongst the journalists, but Ed continues, exactly as though he hasn't just declared them each other's personal property live to the nation, "And, look, of course he'll be miserable. But it's a- it's a really demanding job, you know, and I look forward to actually seeing something of him again."

"Was he a good Prime Minister, do you think?" bellows another from the pack. Cameras flash in Ed's face, and David collects himself, pushes through the throng towards him.

"I think he was a great Prime Minister," Ed says loudly over the noise of the crowds, "I mean, unfortunately he was also a Conservative one, but-"

Laughter. David starts forward, takes Ed's hand and pulls hard. Ed follows without looking back at the cameras, but it still takes him a few moments to catch on.

"No," he protests, when he does. "No way. You're finally retired- I bet I could keep you in bed for a week if I wanted- and you decide that the first shag of our publicly outed lives should be in a _town hall toilet_?"

"It can't wait," David explains, still breathless, steering Ed inside and turning the lock. "I want you _now_."

It was the premiership all along, thinks David giddily, kissing Ed perfunctorily before dropping to his knees. Ed hadn't been lying, when he'd said he loved David; had prevaricated for one reason and one reason only. Trust Ed to simply not _tell_ him, rather than force him to make the choice.

"Call me your husband again," he demands, undoing Ed's belt and kissing his hips through his clothing. Ed laughs, then moans as David pulls down his suit trousers to mouth at the inside of his thigh.

"Sweetie-"

"Husband-"

"I'm not calling you that, it's a _noun_ not a form of address, it'd be like calling the cat 'Cat'- ah, _fuck_ , darling, please-"

In Ed's pocket, David's phone rings.

David remains obstinately on his knees– he couldn't give a damn about answering his phone right now- but Ed, far too lucid, stubborn as ever, retrieves it and hands it to him. It's Justine.

"Prime Minister," he says calmly as he answers, "Congratulations."

"And to you," she returns, cheerfully ignoring the casual breach of constitutional convention in his address. "I just saw Ed on the telly. When did that happen?"

"I- oh. About seven years ago, I think. As I recall, you were there."

"I was," she agrees. "I was promised a wedding invitation."

"Too bad," says David.

"Sore loser?" There's a smile in her voice.

"Not at all," he says, "and it was an honour to lose to you, Miss Thornton, but I'm afraid I'll be standing down as MP for Witney at the first opportunity and moving to Harvard University-" above him, he hears Ed's breath catch- "for the foreseeable future. And I'm not sure, from what I can remember of my own time as First Lord of the Treasury, that you can afford to drop all your duties and jet off to America on a whim any more."

"Damn, you're quite right, I'd forgotten. And it was an honour to beat you, Mr Cameron. Or is it, ah, is it Mr. Miliband these days?"

He can't help it, glances up at Ed, who is gazing fondly back down at him.

"I don't think so," he decides. "Too confusing. Have fun running the country. Call me if you get stuck with anything," he adds, and hangs up.

Then his mouth resumes its place between Ed's thighs, and neither of them think about politics again for at least twenty minutes.


	7. Chapter 7

 

_Harvard, October 2016_

 

He wakes to the rain on the windows, and it's comfortable under the vast expanse of duvet, but Ed isn't there and he can hear the radio on in the kitchen, so the former Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland pushes the covers aside, locates his slippers, and pads downstairs towards the crackling roundup of yesterday's baseball results playing over the soft sound of the rain.

Ed, predictably, has stolen his dressing gown (quiet, possessive joy curls in David's stomach to see it falling off Ed's shoulders; he has to bite back the stupid smile the feeling engenders) and is sleepily battling with their kitchen utensils in the pursuit of poached eggs. David watches fondly for a moment before taking pity on him.

"Morning, darling," he sings, prising the whisk from the unresisting hands of the darling in question, "and stop trying to cook, you'll kill us both."

Ed's smile is small and slightly dazed- David wonders how much sleep he's actually had- but he presses a quick kiss to David's jaw and moves to flick the kettle on.

"Hello to you too, sweetie," he manages finally, and David, heart surging with affection, pauses in whisking the water to pet his husband's sleep-mussed hair into some degree of order and switch on the TV.

Ed makes a small noise of protest.

"The baseball-"

"Can wait, love, but I missed PMQs yesterday, and-"

"And Justine will have trounced Boris, _again_ , so why you all continue to indulge in this absurd conventional posturing is utterly beyond me-"

"Beyond you, yes, because you are a Nobel Prize-winning creature of pure intellect, made of higher stuff than we foul and unreasonable politicians-"

Ed kisses him, sleepily, crossly, so David obligingly pulls him close with one hand and tugs at his silvered black hair with the other, grinning unrepentantly into the kiss and letting his hands wander until Ed has him pinned up against the kitchen table and David is grinding lazily against him. He pulls away for breath, hair falling in his eyes and hands fisted in the material of his own dressing-gown.

"Sex."

"Baseball," replies his appalling socialist killjoy of a husband, letting go of David's waist to remove his own glasses.

"No! Ed-"

"Or," Ed continues, looking thoughtful and sucking absent-mindedly at the glasses' temple, almost certainly for no other purpose than making David weak at the knees, "we could keep the baseball on and have sex in here?"

David beams. It occurs to him that, for the first time since his impromptu proposal in the Osbornes' bathroom, he has got what he'd wanted back then. Ed is, now, entirely and indisputably his.

"Eight years. You've ruined my life, you know," he announces tenderly, as Ed kisses his ear and his hands move to the waistband of Ed's pyjamas.

"I'd noticed," his accident-prone communist genius husband assures him. "You spent it ruining mine."

There are no blossoms in Harvard in October. David can't bring himself to care.


End file.
